


Part of Me

by through_shadows_falling



Series: Supernatural Ficlets [67]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Artist Dean Winchester, Castiel in a Wheelchair, Dean in a Wheelchair, First Meetings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 13:07:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9898445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/through_shadows_falling/pseuds/through_shadows_falling
Summary: Dean was sweating bullets on the day his artwork premiered in his neighborhood’s local gallery.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while since I wrote a ficlet for this series! Enjoy!
> 
> For @leodreamlife who requested: “ “you’re a lesser-known artist and i’m hanging out at a small art studio in the city and you catch me staring in awe at your work” au + Destiel? :3 It would make my day.^^"

Dean was sweating bullets on the day his artwork premiered in his neighborhood’s local gallery. His abstract paintings were part of an art show that called for a unique “city flavor,” and with the urban colors he’d used plus the inclusion of literal pieces of the city for a 3D effect, he fit right in.

Or at least his art did.

Sam, his brother, was the one who put him up for this. Dean had never really felt like the kind of artist who’d show his pieces to the public - it wasn’t that he was private about it, he just didn’t think people would truly appreciate the meaning behind his work. For him, the city represented a dark time in his life, and he’d used his art as a way to cope with the accident that killed his father and left him paralyzed.

Now, the gallery wanted to highlight the city, both the positive and the negative. Dean’s, of course, was negative, what with all the corroded metal and oil stains and pieces of asphalt; the concrete jungle and all its mess, visually represented by Dean’s memories of the wreck that cost him so much. He’d said as much in the little placards hanging beside each piece that gave his brief bio and inspiration.

Perhaps due to its darker nature, Dean noticed that the gallery visitors didn’t linger long on his work. People seemed to prefer the nature shots, like the cityscape at sunset, the smiling faces and happy candids from the park, the stunning photographs that captured the clash of ancient and modern. Compared to them, his pieces were…gritty. Dark. Depressing.

Dean shrank down in his powerchair. The gallery owners were kind people, flitting around to all the artists they’d invited for the opening, chatting up the community. Everyone was happy and appearing to enjoy themselves. And there was Dean, wishing Sam hadn’t given him the flier and convinced him to try for it.

Well, at least there was free food. Dean parked next to the banquet table and filled up on bite-sized appetizers, most of which were so ridiculously fancy he couldn’t even tell what he was eating.

An hour passed, and then two, and he began to perk up. He definitely wasn’t sweating anymore, and he smirked to himself, amused that he’d actually been anxious about such exposure. Even the few people who’d approached him about his art - having noted his nametag - were kind about it, and easy to talk to. What had he been so nervous about? Did he think people would harshly judge him? Art was subjective; if they didn’t get, they simply moved on.

Maybe this gallery thing wasn’t that bad of an idea after all.

Dean was just about to text Sam to a) thank him for encouraging this effort, and b) yell at him for being late as usual, when his gaze snagged on a new visitor. The man was white and in a powerchair like Dean, but what Dean really noticed was how serious he seemed to be about what he was looking at. He would freeze in place before each piece, appearing to absorb everything he could, and then shift over to the next work of art, and the next. He continued this pattern with every piece in the gallery.

This guy was no passive observer. Maybe he was an art critic? Dean started to sweat again as he watched the man stop in front of his first work. He hadn’t considered what would happen if _critics_ showed up to such a small event.

If only Dean could tell what he was thinking. After all, the guy clearly had a lot of thoughts, because he broke his pattern and remained unmoving, fixated on Dean’s piece for a much longer time than he had with the others. Dean’s mouth went dry. Was something wrong? The guy couldn’t be _that_ interested in what Dean had produced, right?

By the time the man finished viewing Dean’s work, Dean was a wreck. He’d grabbed a napkin from the table, and now sat tearing it to shreds. Pieces of white paper drifted into his lap like snow, and he cringed at the sight. He pulled himself together and rode over to the waste basket. As he was brushing it all off, he heard his name.

“Excuse me, but are you Dean Winchester?”

Dean looked over to see the man poised before him. “Uh. Yeah. That’s me.” He nudged the last piece of napkin into the garbage and then sat back. It was nice to address someone at the same eye-level.

“I just wanted to say, I really enjoyed your work.” The man had a deep voice, and his blue eyes sparkled when he gestured, emphatic about his words. “It’s…stunning, honestly. Visceral, real, intimate. I think you’ve captured the dangerous essence of the city extremely well.” 

Dean faced him squarely. “Thanks. Are you…a critic?”

“Me?” The man laughed. “Not professionally, no, but my sister says I could be if I really wanted to.” He ran a hand through his brown hair, tousling it further, even as his gaze never left Dean. It was almost like…he was checking Dean out.

Dean shrugged. “Well, what you said sounds legit to me. Not that I would know. This is my first show.”

“Really? For a debut artist, your work holds up well. It’s my favorite in this entire gallery.”

Dean ducked his head, his cheeks flushing. “No way, man. You’re just saying that.”

“I most certainly am not. I’ve never been so personally moved by art like that. You…really know what it’s like.” Dean glanced up as the man indicated his chair. “It was a different city for me, though.”

Silence descended. Dean wasn’t quite sure what to say after that, but he couldn’t seem to look away.

“Oh, I’m so sorry for being rude. My name is Castiel.” The man, Castiel, reached out and Dean grabbed his hand. They shook.

“Nice to meet you. I’m glad…someone gets it, you know?” Dean grinned, and when Castiel grinned back, his stomach fluttered. The guy was unfairly attractive - like a hot professor, especially with the academic way he spoke about art.

Castiel opened his mouth, then appeared to think better of it. He gaped for a second, then squeezed his eyes shut. “I never do this, but would you like to get coffee sometime?”

Dean blinked. Was he really about to get a date at his first gallery appearance?

“It’s just…I would love to talk more about your art with you. If you’d like.” The confident Castiel from earlier had morphed into a stuttering mess. He ran another hand through his hair.

God, Castiel was even cuter when embarrassed. What could Dean say, other than yes? “I guess I could stand to hear more compliments,” he said, ignoring his nerves in favor of mustering enough bravado to wink.

Castiel’s cheeks grew pink as Dean fished in his pockets for the business cards Sam had bought him as a ‘congratulations on being accepted!’ gift. “Here’s my number. Text me.”

“Right, I will.” Castiel’s smile was wide and gummy.

After he’d left, Dean felt lighter than he had in ages. His work was depressing, but it also had meaning.

And someone had really, truly gotten it.


End file.
